


|stay|

by sonshineandshowers



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Coping, Established Relationship, Gunshot Wounds, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, Kinktober, M/M, Molestation, Noncon touching, Older Man/Younger Man, Sexual Assault, Short Term Sexual Assault Aftermath, Trauma, Whumptober, Workplace Sexual Assault, life-threatening injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:35:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27034288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/pseuds/sonshineandshowers
Summary: Malcolm decides to walk home and hopefully decompress by the time Gil meets him there. He doesn't make it off the precinct property. This is the aftermath.CONTENT NOTE:Contains sexual assault discussed after the fact, please note tagsWhumptober: Emergency Room + Reluctant Bedrest + Left for Dead + Kinktober: Noncon + Dressed Up
Relationships: Gil Arroyo/Malcolm Bright
Comments: 8
Kudos: 44
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	|stay|

**Author's Note:**

> Whumptober + Kinktober = this experiment. I have a handful of different Kinktober prompt lists and the Whumptober prompt list, so I'm going to cross them over as much as I can. These two days' came from [Kinktober](https://lustyargonianmaid.tumblr.com/post/627757371721220096/time-to-start-planning-kinktober-fandom-works), [Kinktober](https://jbbuckybarnes.tumblr.com/post/627189398153363456/kinktober-2020) and [Whumptober](https://whumptober2020.tumblr.com/post/628055505485561856/whumptober-2020-updated).

Statistically, Malcolm would know the person.

He runs the math while he lays on the pavement, unable to move. Threes become eights, sevens ones, sixes nines and back again, a whole number soup of calculations that don't make any sense. It's tainted by a coppery leak, a crimson additive that mars the broth, approaching the limit of zero. Nothing. Death.

He screamed. That, he remembers. A shriek turned roar that ended in a bullet in his side. Someone had to have heard. Someone is coming. Someone. Anyone. Watching the door, he waits for their arrival.

It's night, the darkness in the sky elusive among the overhead lights from the building, the streetlights. Maybe fifty feet from the brick to the parking garage, a place to escape, to pace. To seek a few minutes alone when focus on a case became impossible in the fog of thoughts in his brain. To clear his head before he walked home. To take the extra time walking and maybe recover the joy he’d had when he put on one of Gil’s favorite suits that morning.

An officer. Maintenance. Custodial. Visiting agency. The public. All of the different roles who have access to the building. Acquaintance brings him to officers, mind flipping through everyone from unis to Gil's boss and higher. In all of the light, he can't see a face. Can't face what happened, leaving him belly up on the cold blacktop, bleeding out.

Why can't anyone see him? Did he make that much of a negative impact on the precinct? Wasn't anyone listening? He yelled as loud as he could and there was a gunshot for god’s sake. Why doesn't anyone care?

"Silencer, my boy," his father says, emerging from the ether. He surveys him like he would an open patient in the operating room, taking in every detail. "This doesn't look good. Pants open and everything."

They're not open. Just the fly. Just partway. Malcolm stopped it. Whatever _it_ was. He screamed, a gun was fired, someone's coming. Until then... the profile.

Taller? Shorter? Taller. Scent… scent… unknown? Gun oil? Maybe? Unknown. Who did he pass on the way out of the building? Who followed him? Who does he pass every time he goes out to walk? Whose voice had growled in his ear, telling him to “Shut up!” Who, who, who…

"You're smarter than this," his father tuts. "Surely you can do something better right now than find your attempted rapist."

"Attacker. It matters. He'll hurt someone else."

"You're _dying!_ Priorities!" Dr. Whitly’s unruly hair flies in the air, voices its own disapproval of the situation.

Priorities. Gil always arguing with him about priorities. Call for backup. Wait for backup. Don't do anything stupid.

He didn't. He didn't, he didn't — _promise_. He went for a walk so he wouldn't draw attention to himself pacing inside the precinct. Said he'd go home early. Not this. Not this. He didn't want this. He didn't want to be touched. He didn't do anything stupid, he didn't, Gil — _promise_.

They usually go home together, take the drive to decompress and transition from their work life to their home life. Often silence, sometimes his musings, Gil humoring him while he babbles. Gil will know he's missing. Gil will know something's wrong. Gil will look.

"You'll be dead," Dr. Whitly reminds. "Shame."

Malcolm needs help, but he can't yell, can't even talk anymore as he focuses on the monumental task breathing has become with the burning in his flank. Thoughts of his father have his hand twitching at his side. Fingers. He has control of his fingers. He has control.

It's muscle memory unlocking the phone with his fingerprint, barely tapping the shortcut on screen to place a call. "Hey, kid," Gil's voice breaks the chilly air.

Words don't come. Just a gurgle in Malcolm’s chest that's so painful, splits him open. His father babbles in the background about what organs could have been hit, how likely he is to bleed out on the pavement.

"You okay?"

No. Someone groped him, tried to get into his pants. A man, he thinks, statistically. Practically, even, based on who he remembers passing that day. He screamed for help, he did, he cried for help, Gil, he did. He _tried_. He doesn't want to die. He _doesn't_.

The door flies open from the building, swinging and hitting against the brick. A brief moment of hope enters his mind, but he doesn’t hear anything else. It’s gone. Snuffed.

"I'll come home, kid," Gil says. "Whatever it is, we can talk about it. Just stay on the line with me."

It's not like Malcolm's going anywhere else. He looks into the dark sky, trying to find stars, some hint of a constellation he's seen at the planetarium when Gil surprises him with a day out. Nothing. No one's coming. No one will help.

"Kid?" Gil's voice, close and far, echoing in his clouded mind.

Footsteps pounding closer, running. A world's worth of pressure pushing into his side. His world.

"I need a bus!" Gil shouts. "Outside the 1-6, back near the parking garage. Thirty-two-year-old male, GSW to the abdomen."

The sky becomes Gil's frantic eyes, difficult to see. Pain. Worry. He called for help, Gil, he did. He doesn't want to die, he doesn't.

"Stay with me. Help is coming."

Stay.

* * *

The ground is a pool of crimson, only discernible from the blacktop by its sheen, reflecting the light from the parking garage. Gil's jacket is left behind, the compress unnecessary once the paramedics arrived with better equipment.

Malcolm had ducked out to go home maybe an hour before. What the hell had happened? Why were buttons on his shirt popped, his belt undone, his pants... How the _fuck_ was he sexually assaulted at work while all of them were inside the building? There?

Gil throws up on the pavement at his feet. As he breathes, waiting for the nausea to pass, he palms his keys, aimlessly strokes the rabbit’s foot. There's one place he needs to be right now, and it isn't here, interrogating a scene that can’t talk back.

His partner had been playful that morning, dressed up in his ‘Gil’s day’ suit, but as the day rolled on, he’d gotten pulled down by the weight of the case. They hadn’t gotten to talk about why, he merely accepting Malcolm needed to go home for the night because the kid wasn’t ready to talk. What if he went with him? What if… He shakes his head and picks it up to JT standing in front of him.

"I'll take you to the hospital," JT says.

To _him_.

Malcolm’s all that matters. Gil boxes away his alternative scenarios with everything else that can wait and follows JT.

* * *

There are _hours_ of waiting. Surgeries. Waiting. Talking with JT. Waiting. Thinking. Thinking. Thinking. Days of the kid drifting in a painkiller-induced haze. Days of thinking, considering every possible scenario of what happened.

There's a camera back there, on the way to that parking garage. Multiple. Supposed to be watched at all times. Gil tells JT to get him the footage, JT turns him down. They go around and around on the same request, JT telling Gil IA is handling it, Gil telling JT he doesn’t care. He wants to see the _fucking_ camera that is supposed to be watched 24/7 and know why the _fuck_ someone didn’t see this happen. Why someone couldn’t stop it. Why _he_ couldn’t stop it.

JT won’t get him the footage. Yelling in the hospital does get him the rest of the story, though.

Probably helps if the officer on duty watching the cameras isn't also the perpetrator. Probably also helps if the system of checks and balances is functional. As JT explains approximately when IA thinks the uni ducked away, Gil mentally adds that it probably also helps if anyone in the building had been more attentive. If he had noticed how quiet his partner had been that evening. If he had noticed...

"There's nothing, boss," JT says. “Nothing on camera. There are blood tracks from the uni running to his car. Trace on Bright’s jacket, pants. They’re sitting on his house — they’ll get him.”

Gil holds his hand up, not wanting to hear any more. “How long was Bright out there?"

"We don't know. We can approximate — "

" _How long?_ " Gil demands.

"Five, ten minutes maybe after the gunshot. He'll have to tell us before."

JT doesn't mention that if it had been longer, they'd be at the morgue — Gil makes that leap just fine himself. All of that new information does nothing to answer the one question he has. "What happened?"

"He'll have to tell us."

Fingers curling up into a fist, Gil wants to punch something. Take out some of his frustration. Get some sort of revenge for his partner. Instead, he goes for a walk days too late.

* * *

"I don't wanna die."

Malcolm is so doped up, he doesn't feel much of anything. Can't see through the fog. Can’t see the difference between ground and sky and anything one foot in front of him.

"I didn't, Gil. I didn't do anything stupid."

"I know, kid. I know." A hand brushes his hair, rubs the back of his neck.

He sleeps. A rolling drowsy, asleep, drowsy, asleep repeats for awhile. Sets him on tumble dry until his pain shrinks to a manageable level.

One time he wakes, Gil's head is on his bed. He rubs the wavy strands with his fingertips, drifts in the familiarity of his bedhead. Wishes he had the energy to curl up next to him, get a hug.

"You're awake," Gil says, sitting up and taking his hand.

Malcolm tries to speak but finds himself parched, so he nods instead. Gil spoons him a few ice chips that coat his throat, bring him some confidence to try his voice again. "Did you get him?" Malcolm gets out the one thought on his mind.

“Arrested yesterday.”

"Hold me."

Stay.

* * *

Malcolm sleeps and wakes again in Gil’s arms. His side _aches_ , reminds him of the ages he waited for help. “I did everything you told me to,” he tells Gil’s chest. “I didn’t do anything stupid.”

“I know, kid. It’s not your fault.” Gil pets his hair.

“Nothing happened. Not really.” The grasp and flurry of unwanted touches were over in moments — the waiting on the pavement was what took an eternity, what he knows will flood his nightmares.

“I don’t think this hospital stay is nothing,” Gil says gently.

Malcolm can feel the bubblewrap circling him, softening anything that's spoken. It isn't necessary. “Who found me?”

“I did.”

“Oh.” Malcolm takes in the information, knows what Gil would have seen, what scenarios Gil’s mind may have concocted if his own thoughts are any gauge. “It could have been a lot worse.” He swallows. “He grabbed me — he didn’t rape me. I yelled, he stopped. Well, shot me, but you get the picture.”

“Please. That’s not nothing.” Gil rubs his shoulder. "It's a very serious something."

More layers of bubblewrap that Malcolm is tempted to pop. He knows he shouldn’t compare, has had that conversation with survivors many times. Knows it shouldn’t have happened. Knows he didn’t want it to happen. All of that knowledge doesn’t bring any comfort, just makes him breathe faster, a tax his body doesn’t need. So he sticks to, “It could have been a lot worse,” and attempts to lighten the mood with, “I’m a pretty good screamer.” He’ll deal with the rest when he isn’t trapped in a hospital.

“That’s not really funny right now.”

Malcolm shrugs.

“The usual, okay? Here when you want to talk.” The same availability Gil always gives without pushing. Space without an expectation. What makes it possible for Malcolm to share the darker parts of his life, the things no one else hears. He just wants… _needs_ time to figure out what happened for himself before he can attempt to explain it to his partner. Doesn't even know what _it_ is right now.

“I know. Thanks.” Malcolm shifts a little to look up into Gil’s eyes. There’s wetness there he didn’t expect. A small trail he wipes away with his thumb. “Can you take me home?”

Gil chuckles and sniffs, a warm sound that’s worth some of the additional pain the movement brings to Malcolm’s side. Malcolm pulls his cheek down to him, presses a kiss to his skin, gives him a minute to collect himself.

“I’m okay,” Malcolm reassures him.

“I know.” Gil smiles the kind of smile that crinkles and brightens his eyes. “I think it’s gonna be a couple days, though. I’m sorry.”

“Had to ask.” Malcolm sighs, leaning into Gil’s chest again.

“Do you want some jello?”

“No.”

“Maybe you’re not okay,” Gil teases, stroking his jaw.

“Nothing that requires you to move.”

“You got it.”

Most pressing thoughts off of his mind, Malcolm finally pushes the button for more pain medicine and sleeps.

* * *

“I’m beginning to wish we still had your apartment,” Malcolm admits nearly a week later as they walk up the stairs to their loft. Walk is a bit generous — he’s heavily leaning on Gil and the railing and ends up pausing nearly every step.

“Why’s that?”

“Less stairs.”

Gil chuckles. “You want to stop?”

“No. Thinking about asking you to move the couch into the kitchen, though,” Malcolm jokes. His fingers have the railing in a death grip, knuckles turning white.

“Could be arranged.”

“I’m kidding.”

“It’s a lot of steps from the living room to the bathroom.”

“I’m ‘supposed to get my exercise,’” Malcolm air quotes with the arm wrapped around Gil’s side.

“The one time you listen to doctor’s orders.” Gil raises his eyebrows, and Malcolm sticks out the tip of his tongue in return. “How about the other half of your discharge instructions?”

“Is that your not so subtle way of asking whether I’ll go to my therapist?” Malcolm asks, looking over at him. “You don’t need to convince me of the value of therapy.”

Gil nods.

“How about you?” Malcolm knows firsthand the aftereffects of witnessing trauma. Knows Gil’s been hovering while he waits for him to be ready to talk. Suspects he might benefit from talking with someone, and when provided with the perfect opening…

“I’m talking to you. And — “

“That’s not — “

“Would you let me finish?” Gil looks at him, slightly exasperated. Malcolm makes a show of snapping his jaw shut, so Gil continues, “I plan to call for an appointment after I get you settled in. It’s been a bit, but… he was really helpful after Jackie.”

“Cool.” Easier conversation than Malcolm expected.

“Cool?”

“Yeah.” Malcolm shrugs, panting as they keep walking. “I don’t want to alarm you, but — “

“Spit it out, Bright,” Gil’s concerned tone emphasizes urgency.

“Passing out seems preferable to climbing any more stairs,” Malcolm says plainly.

Gil quickly lowers Malcolm to the step, leans him against the wall. Malcolm works to catch his breath, grimace on his face as his chest heaves. “That any better?” Gil asks after a few minutes.

“Just need a few.”

Gil’s hand rests on his shoulder. “You okay if I go get the recliner from the living room? I’ll pull you inside.”

“The floors!”

“And the felt discs,” Gil adds.

“Okay.”

They make it as far as pulling Malcolm into the kitchen and putting his feet up on the accompanying stool. “Good enough,” Malcolm proclaims. “Stay with me?” he requests.

“Whatever you want, kid.” Gil pulls over another chair from the living room to sit across from him.

“We can call it the sitting room.” Malcolm smirks, eyes drooping closed where he sits.

Gil leans forward, unties Malcolm’s shoes, and pulls them off. He removes his own and rests his feet on the same stool, brushing socked foot against socked foot. “Sleep.”

“If my mother calls, tell her I need a few more days.” Malcolm isn’t talking to anyone else about the assault until he finishes talking to Gil. She has a way of poking and prodding to get everything out of him, and he’s not up for it.

“You’ve got it.”

“Thank you.”

Gil watches Malcolm drift to sleep, grateful his partner’s alive. He doesn’t rest himself, hypervigilant in watching over him. Though he knows he can’t keep doing it, the action comforts him right now. His response in the future… he figures his therapist will be able to help with.

His strong, capable kid.

A survivor.

Toe to toe with his partner, Gil rests his eyes for a minute.

* * *

_fin_

**Author's Note:**

> i've received significant support from so many people in this fandom that help make my writing possible. as this story is M, if you're 18+ and would like to chat prodigal son with wicked awesome people, come on by the [pson trash server](https://discord.gg/TVkmgxV).


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